


Greener Grass

by autisticalistair



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticalistair/pseuds/autisticalistair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the Wounding and Healing of Man. Thorin comes back from war a changed man, but finds company in the owner of a quiet tea shop, and tries to breathe life back into himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [northerntrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Wounding and Healing of Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948658) by [northerntrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash). 



It was a year before Thorin could leave the house alone, not accompanied by either of his nephews, or his sister, for that matter.

He had lingered in the doorway for a good ten minutes, tying and untying and tying again the knot in his scarf. The wool was soft under his fingers, a deep blue than Dis had made him for his birthday in April. It was late October now, and the wind outside was sharp, blades in the air.

Thorin took a deep breath and opened the front door. The house he lived in was big enough for his two nephews and his sister, as well as him, but small enough to have a pleasant box garden out the front. Thorin touched the lavender bush as he walked past and felt the raindrops lingering after last nights rain. It had lashed the windows violently, sounding just a little too much like bullets tearing through the air. Thorin had woken up late to an empty house because he fell asleep in the early hours in the morning, finding only Kili in the kitchen, apparently reading something for school.

The sky above was steel grey, but it wouldn’t rain until the evening, probably. Thorin made it to the front gate and rested his hand on the metal, realising how rusted it was. He focused on that as he opened it. The little details kept him from succumbing to the panic rising in his chest like an ugly poisonous flower and he pressed on.

It was a Saturday, so the village would be busy. That didn’t matter. Thorin doubted he would even make it that far before he turned back to the safety and warmth of his home. Still, the cold wind was a relief on his face, though he couldn’t explain why.

He walked along the road that was barely a road. It had a slight uphill incline, but that didn’t matter. It would be good to use his weary muscles for something other than carrying him from room to room at home. God, how Thorin missed being able to actually go about and _do_ things, run around with his nephews in the garden, cook with Dis in the mornings and evenings, walk around with friends that were now either dead or too messed up to join him.

Thorin didn’t dwell on that. The last of the summer flowers that were too stubborn to give in to the increasing cold were what he focused on, bending down to touch their delicate petals and letting the moisture on them flow down his fingers to his palm. He used to love flowers. Before the war, he had had pots of them on the kitchen windowsill - basil and rosemary and even lilies at some point. They had all been long dead by the time Thorin and Dis returned from war and he hadn’t had the heart to try and nurse new plants to life since then. How could he look atfer something alive and dependent when he himself was the hollow, barely healing shell of a man who should have died on the front?

Many people talked about losing brothers on the front line - figurative brothers, that is. Men they bled and drank and laughed and suffered with, men that covered them when they were injured and men that let them have a cigarette or two from their own stash on slow days. Thorin had literally fought side by side with his own flesh and blood brother on the German lines. He still saw Frerin in the back of his mind, his helmet just a little askew and his face forever smeared with grime and blood. Thorin hadn’t really looked any different, if he was being honest, but when you were looking at your baby brother next to you with a gun in his arms and the look in his eyes all soldiers got when they were sure that any second now, they were going to die, it was enough to shake him out of the haze he had been in for months. It was like waking up and realising, _one of us is going home with a pulse and the other is going home in a casket._

Frerin had been the one who bought Thorin pots of herbs for the first time when they were children. That was the one thing Thorin could think of as he watched Frerin die. Thorin hadn’t been able to stem the bleeding from Frerin’s chest where the bullet had torn straight through, taking all of them by surprise. Frerin had clawed at Thorin’s arms, eyes wide and and terrified, but at least it had been quick. He died fast and his eyes remained looking up at the sky, forever unseeing.

There had been no sunshine that day.

His body had been sent back to their hometown and he was buried there. The last time Thorin had seen real flowers was when he saw the bunches laid on his brothers freshly filled in grave and he himself had lain cow parsley and lavender there, tied with the only string he could find in the house at the time. His hands had trembled and his face was a mess of stitches and slowly healing scar tissue and he was leaning on a cane with Dis’ arm linked through his. That was just over a year ago now.

Frerin would tell him to start with these pretty, delicate things, if he wanted to start growing flowers again. Thorin didn’t quite know what they were, but he liked their blue petals and how stubborn they were this time of year.

He stood and told himself he would come back for those flowers today or tomorrow, if he still wanted to. Thorin walked away and made his way down to the village, crowds be damned.

It lasted all of fifteen minutes, of course. He got into the village and was met with the loud, unceasing chatter of market day, and the rush of people trying to buy as much as they could get away with and get home fast. Thorin hadn’t been here in a long time, but he recognised almost all of it. The memorial from the Great War in the village square and the post office and the little road that went off towards the train station Thorin had walked past to get here. He had grown up here, causing chaos with Dis and Frerin when they were in their teens and sneaking out at night to get drunk with boys he went to school with. He still remembered how scared he had been when one had pulled him around behind a wall where no one could see them and kissed him stupid. He had died in ‘41. Infection, Dis had told him. She was the only one he told about that one night behind a cold stone wall.

Thorin carefully made his way through the crowd, focusing on a new cafe he had never noticed before. Well, it looked like a cafe, but Thorin knew in the back of his mind that it must have been some kind of tea room, going by the frilly lettering over the door spelling out _Baggins Tea Rooms_. It looked quiet inside, so Thorin shouldered his way in as carefully as he could, finding himself in a warm atrium that opened out into the mass of the building. There weren’t many people inside, just an old couple sharing a pot of tea and a young girl with her hair tied up into a long braid. She looked lonely, but she had a sketchbook open in front of her, and she absently brushed crumbs of the scone she was eating from the paper whenever they spilled from her fingers. Fili had said something about a girl like that a few times - blonde and pretty, with wide green eyes and a talent for art. This must have been her.

Thorin didn’t interrupt her. He just walked past and found a table in the corner by the window. There was a radio playing somewhere, soft piano music accompanied by what sounds like French lyrics. It was pleasant enough. No one talked to him for a while and Thorin was glad for that. He looked at the little menu tucked in between the bowl of sugar and a small jug of homemade syrup. Naturally, it was all sweet food. Thorin didn’t have much of a sweet tooth if he was being honest, but he could bring Kili and Fili here one day, maybe Dis, if she got the time off. Maybe he would be able to handle that one day.

For now, he was just happy to be alone.

It didn’t last long. About fifteen minutes after he sat down, there was a gentle patter of feet coming towards him and a quiet voice trying to get his attention. He looked down and saw a child, no older than nine or ten, wide blue eyes looking up at him. He startled a little, but calmed himself, and smiled at the child. He loved children, and after years of helping raise his nephews, even war couldn’t kill the gentle voice he always used to talk to young kids.

“Hello,” he said, leaning down a little.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” the little boy asked. Thorin laughed softly and nodded.

“I would, please,” he said. “What would you recommend?”

The boy giggled at being talked to like an adult and someone came up behind him, putting their hand on his shoulder.

“Go sit down, Frodo,” they said and looked at Thorin when the boy left waving goodbye. “Sorry about that, he’s always eager to meet new people.”

“It’s alright,” Thorin said. The man before him looked like he owned a tea shop, that was for sure. Short and kind looking, with an unruly mop of coppery hair and an apron tied around his waist. “Your son?”

“Nephew. I’ve never seen you around before,” the man said, and it was a very subtly masked question. This man wasn’t from around here, his accent alone gave him away. He must have been from the south. He didn’t have the northern drawl to his voice most people here did.

“I… I don’t get out a lot,” Thorin admitted, and didn’t elaborate. The man seemed to understand and took a notepad from his apron, nodding to himself.

“What can I get you?” he asked. Thorin hesitated.

“Just a pot of tea, please. Any kind,” he said after a few seconds. The man smiled at him kindly, jotting the order down with his left hand. Thorin noticed that he leaned heavily on his right leg and he had a small but noticeable scar poking out from his hairline. Thorin didn’t ask if he had served. He didn’t need to. He recognised the leftover scars of war. He wouldn’t want anyone to ask about the scars on his face, or the way he walked with a slight limp either.

The man left and Thorin watched him go to the counter. A mess of dark curls poked up over the edge, no doubt the man’s nephew. Frodo, Thorin thought he caught the name right. He watched the man put a hand on Frodo’s back and say something before disappearing.

He came back out with a pot of earl grey and a plate with a couple of homemade biscuits. How this man managed to get these made when rationing was still in place was a mystery to Thorin, but he drank his tea and ate the biscuits, and found them both rather nice. A quiet cup of tea in a warm tea house while French music played, and on the way home, Thorin carefully scooped the flowers out of the ground and carried them back, feeling for the first time, a little bit more alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, shout out for [northerntrash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash) for writing [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3948658/chapters/8851894) beautiful Barduil fic this one was inspired by

Thorin went back a week later.

This time, it actually was raining. He walked as fast as his old bones would allow through the downpour, and managed to get soaked. By the time he got to the tea house, his hair was a sodden mess and his coat hung unpleasantly heavy on his shoulders, the thick wool weighed down by rainwater. The owner was busy taking an order from a group of young women, but still cast Thorin a bright smile when he noticed him. Thorin smiled back. He saw the man's little nephew on the counter again, this time with a colouring book open in front of him. Thorin was reminded of his own nephews at that age, drawing on any scrap of paper they could find, squinting in concentration.

Thorin shrugged off his coat and scarf and sat down, pushing his hair from his eyes. He knew that when it dried it would be a wild, curly mess. Not that he particularly cared, it wasn’t as big a deal to him as it once was. It just became impossible to tame, and that got really frustrating really quickly.

The radio was still playing that gentle French music. This one, Thorin recognised. Dis would sing it when they were cooking together at home under her breath. On the front, she had served with French nurses, once France had been liberated from the German forces. Thorin had been in a French field hospital, laying half awake and half in mute agony, listening to French music playing on the radio that the nurses had in there. It had been a tether to the real world, lively music interspersed with news reports in a language Thorin didn’t understand very well, even after all of those years fighting with the French, both with and against them.

It was quiet in the tea house, like it had been last week. The old couple from before were there again, smiling at each other like they were lovestruck teenagers. The blonde girl who had been drawing was nowhere to be seen, but Thorin remembered Fili saying something about meeting her today. Perhaps that was where she was.

Eventually, the shop owner came over, distracting Thorin from his own thoughts.

“Same as last week?” he asked. Thorin nodded.

“Please,” he said. “Sorry, I never caught your name.”

The owned looked a little surprised, but smiled all the same. He gestured to the chair opposite and Thorin nodded, watching him carefully as he sat down, wincing a little.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he said, holding his hand out over the table. Thorin hesitated before taking it and shaking his hand.

“Thorin Durin,” he said.

“Durin? I’ve heard that before,” Bilbo said, eyebrows drawing together as he thought about it. Thorin looked at the table, at the delicate cloth napkins and the finely crafted silver cutlery.

“My family’s lived here for a while. A good few generations,” he said quietly.

“Wasn’t there a fire?” Bilbo asked, but gently, like he knew it was a delicate subject. Thorin nodded and raised his eyes to meet Bilbo’s. He had that look on his face like he knew not to ask questions, and instead, gave Thorin a sympathetic smile, a real, honest to god, genuine smile. For a second, Thorin could do nothing but just stare back, and then he found himself smiling too.

“I was overseas when it happened,” he said. “My sister was here, and her sons. She was injured but they both got out safely. She ended up becoming a nurse after that, and served in France. That’s where she found me.”

“After you’d been injured,” Bilbo said. Thorin nodded.

“She brought me home. She goes up to Kingson’s to see the man up there, came back from the war with some arm injury, I think,” he said.

“When I came back, I stayed in Salisbury with my family for a while, to… _recuperate_ , as most of them put it. Turns out, some of my cousins had been killed in an air raid. Frodo’s parents included. I healed and became his guardian, and brought him up here about a year ago,” Bilbo said. He said it all so nonchalantly that it seemed like he was telling a story belonging to someone else, and he was just a mouthpiece for it. But Thorin had gotten good at seeing through steely facades over the years, and Bilbo’s was paper thin.

“What happened to you?” he asked. To his surprise, Bilbo didn’t seem to take offense at that. Instead, he just smiled kindly.

“I was shot in the leg. You?”

“Grenade. It hit the truck next to us and I ended up with shrapnel all down my right side.” Thorin rubbed his right forearm absently, remembering the burning agony of having twisted and burning shards of metal under his skin. It had taken a long time to get it out, and he was sure that the only reason he survived was because of his sisters stubborn heart, refusing to lose him so shortly after losing Frerin, after their father and grandfather.

“Germany?”

“Yes, in forty five. You?”

“Battle of Belgium, nineteen forty. I almost lost my leg.” Bilbo’s hand went to his thigh, as if remembering what it had been like. Thorin understood.

“But you lived,” he said.

“But I lived,” Bilbo said in agreement. “That’s worth losing a leg over, I think. I’d still get to go home with a pulse, not many of us were that lucky.”

“I know. I lost a brother on the front,” Thorin said before he could stop himself. Bilbo’s eyes widened, but he looked like he wasn’t going to say anything. “I was with him when he died, actually. That was about two days before the German grenade hit us.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said softly.

“Thank you. That was… god, that was over a year ago now. Sometimes I wake up and I still feel like I’m sleeping in a trench,” Thorin said, running a hand through his hair.

“It’s been six years for me and I still feel that too,” Bilbo said. He glanced over at Frodo, still colouring in with his tongue poking out between his teeth. He was somehow both well dressed and a little scruffy, just like his uncle.

“Do you still get nightmares?” Thorin asked.

“I do, yes.” Bilbo started to fiddle with one of the forks on the table, deliberately looking away from Thorin. Thorin recognised that look. He had given it to Dis for a solid six months after coming home from the war whenever she tried to talk to him about it, to tell him to visit Frerin’s grave, those sorts of things.

“Do two teenage boys come in here? One’s got dark hair, the other’s blond. They’re very… well, _loud_ , at times,” Thorin asked, changing the subject. Bilbo looked up, eyebrows raised.

“Well, they’ve never been loud in here, they just buy all of the pastries they can carry and run off to Kingson’s place,” he said.

“That’s them,” Thorin said, smiling. For the first time in a long time, there was a warm little flutter in his chest, like a butterfly waking up, shaking out wings of amber and glowing with light and warmth. It was a peculiar feeling, but Thorin let it unfurl anyway. “I hope they’re not buying you out of stock, what with the rations still in place.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I found out all sorts of tricks to make this stuff during the war,” Bilbo said. He smiled shyly, looking away like he couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation. “If anything, they’re keeping me in business.”

“Well, that’s good. I never would have thought of using pastries and wildflowers to court anyone, but Fili seems to be managing just fine,” Thorin said. He had caught Fili a few times tying bunches of wildflowers together with paper and twine, agonising over getting them perfect.

“Fili is the eldest?” Bilbo asked. Thorin nodded.

“Kili’s the younger one. Sometimes, I swear they’re demons,” he said.

“And other times…”

“Other times I’m just glad that they’re around to keep my mind off of other things.” Thorin had admitted that to Dis once, and she had cried before pulling Thorin into a bone crushing hug only she could manage.

“I know the feeling,” Bilbo said. “Frodo makes it easier to cope with things, I think. If it wasn’t for him, I would have…” He leaves that sentence hanging as he rubs the back of his neck, looking down and away from Thorin.

“I know what you mean.” Thorin knew that it was better to say _I know how you feel, I know your pain because I feel it to_ than to apologise for it, or maybe that was just his perspective as an old soldier. Bilbo smiled weakly.

“I don’t get to talk about this a lot, you know. Not with someone who actually understands,” he said. Thorin nodded in understanding.

“And I don’t get out very often. This is kind of a win-win for the both of us, isn’t it?” he said, and he actually smiled. He could feel the fading scars on the right side of his face pulling a little, but it was worth it. That little glimmer of warmth was still there, getting warmer and brighter. Thorin found that he didn’t want to let it die.

“It’s nice to know you come here when you get out of the house, then,” Bilbo said. “I’ll just go grab your tea, would you mind if I…?” He gestured to the table and Thorin shrugged.

“I’d be grateful for the company, as long as I’m not keeping you from your work,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. You missed the busiest part of the day already,” Bilbo said. He stood and smoothed out his apron. “I’ll be right back.”

Thorin watched him walk off to the kitchen, stopping to ruffle his nephews hair and get a half hearted protest and a tongue stuck out at him in return. He waved at Thorin when he saw him, albeit a little shyly before going back to his colouring in.

Bilbo came back not long after with a tray of tea and scones, this time with two cups and two plated. They drank and ate together (and while Thorin wasn’t the biggest fan of sweet food, the cream and jam together was just that right side of sugary and rich), and talked. Bilbo excused himself halfway through to serve a customer, but after that, no one came in until Thorin had to leave. They drank all of the tea and ate all of the scones on the tray, talking about their childhoods and avoiding talk about the war in detail. Bilbo had grown up in Wiltshire, which explained his accent. He was an old child from a _very_ large extended family. When the war had hit, it had been personal, given that his mother's side was Jewish. He was a baker by trade and a writer as a hobby, and while he wished he had had children, he loved having his nephew around, so that was enough for him.

For the most part, Thorin just let him talk. His voice had an oddly soothing quality, calm and soft. If Thorin was going to put a colour to it, it would be the warm red-gold of autumn leaves falling from trees. Autumn was Thorin’s favourite season.

It was late afternoon by the time Thorin left. He bought two of the small apple tarts in the display for the boys, and a berry one for Dis before he departed.

“Will you be back next week?” Bilbo asked just as Thorin turned to leave.

“Perhaps even earlier,” Thorin said. “Thank you for the company, Bilbo.”

“And you for yours. Say goodbye, Frodo,” Bilbo said, touching the boy's shoulder. Frodo looked up at Thorin with those wide blue eyes.

“Goodbye, Mister Durin,” he said politely. It made Thorin laugh softly.

“I’ve got loads of colouring books at home that haven’t been opened in years, if you need any more,” he said to Bilbo, keeping his voice low.

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Bilbo said.

“I’ll see you soon.”  
“And you. Get home safe.”

And with that, Thorin left, and if that glimmer in his chest never really faded over the next few days, then he really wasn’t one to complain, was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dying over middle aged men in the late 40's bonding over pastry and tea. I hope you're dying over it too.  
> Find me on tumblr [@gaypippin](http://gaypippin.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

He came back two days later, and then three days, and again and again until Bilbo could anticipate his arrival and have his tea ready for when Thorin came through the door. 

When Bilbo had first seen him, his heart had dropped at the sight of his scars and the slight limp with which he walked. He recognised the sign of a soldier immediately, and had almost not wanted to go over, until Frodo decided he would do Bilbo’s job for him and walk over with that adorable look on his face, putting on his ‘grown up voice’, as he liked to call it. He had had no choice after that, but he was glad that he  _ did  _ do it. Thorin was, if not a little withdrawn, lovely. Polite. 

Bilbo had been a little reluctant to sit with him the second time around, but his leg had been killing him, so he took the chance and ended up finding a sort of kindred spirit in Thorin, even if it was only over talk of the war, and later, idle conversation over tea and scones. Somehow, Thorin made that whole idea of making friends over well baked food more charming than usual. He was wounded, it was obvious, and still getting over the pains of war. Hell, six years later, Bilbo was still doing the same, but at least he was settled. At least he had a kind of purpose to his life that kept him going. Not that Thorin didn’t, it was just that… well, he seemed a little bit lost. War did that to people, Bilbo knew as well as anyone. It hadn’t been until he asked about Prim and Drogo and found out that Frodo was orphaned that he got some of his old spark back. After that, he had thrown himself into sorting things out with adopting Frodo and moving  _ away  _ from their incessantly nosy family. They had gone to Manchester first, but ended up staying further north after the run of the city had brought up too many bad memories for the both of them. 

This place was perfect. Idyllic. The school was good, and Frodo was making friends. Bilbo had found a golden opportunity to open this place a year ago and everything had been looking up for them, for the most part. The nightmares would come for the both of them, but they could work through them. 

One particularly cold afternoon two months later, Thorin came in bearing a plant pot. They’d… well, Bilbo would suppose that he could call Thorin a friend by now. If it wasn’t too busy, Bilbo would share a pot of tea with him, sometimes in the main room, sometimes in the ‘office’ where Bilbo took lunch if it was especially quiet or if he was just closed. At first, conversation had been stilted and a little awkward, so Bilbo did what he did best - talked. He talked about his family and his old friends, and when Thorin started to ask questions and talking about himself, it just went from there. 

And so Bilbo had made an unexpected friend in the last person he could have anticipated. A lonely yet loved war torn man with silver in his hair and scars all the way down one side of his body. 

Sometimes they talked about the war. It was a difficult subject, better discussed towards the end of their  _ meetings _ , if there was another word for them. Thorin never talked about his brother, never talked about the grenade. He talked about the German towns and villages they’d passed through to get to Berlin and the men he had fought with for three solid years of being on the front. They complained about the rations on the front line and both agreed that even with the rations back home still being in place, it was much better here. It was clear that Thorin tried to be lighthearted about it all, but when he looked away, something in his eyes changed. Bilbo recognised it all too well. 

So, Thorin came in with a plant pot. 

He held it gently, looking around as he walked in. It was getting colder, so he had a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Bilbo waved to get his attention and  _ definitely  _ noticed the small amount of relief that passed over his features before he masked them. 

“You’re early,” Bilbo said. Thorin walked up to the counter, still holding the plant. How it managed to survive the violent winds tearing at hair and clothes today, Bilbo would never understand. 

“I brought you something,” Thorin said conspiratorially. Bilbo looked at the plant, and then back at Thorin, raising an eyebrow. 

“I wonder what it could be,” he said. Thorin smiled and held the plant out. 

“Bluebells,” he said. “Turns out, we have a greenhouse now and no one told me.”

“I didn’t know you grew flowers,” Bilbo said. He took the pot gently. “Thank you, Thorin.”

“If you want any more, I have an entire greenhouse full of herbs and flowers now,” Thorin said. He was actually smiling, not like the fleeting smiles before, but  _ actually _ smiling. It took Bilbo a good few seconds to be able to respond. 

“That sounds lovely. God knows I could use more life in here some days. But between you and me, I might end up killing all of the plants,” Bilbo said. Thorin just laughed quietly, looking down. His hands went to his scarf and deftly undid the knot holding it in place. It was a dark rich blue, and clearly hand made. Had Dis made it for him or had Thorin gotten it from someone else? A former lover, maybe. For some unknown reason, Bilbo wanted to dismiss that thought and forget it ever came to him. 

“I’ll make sure you don’t,” he said. He looked around the room for a free table, finding his usual one occupied. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Anything,” Bilbo said. 

“It’s Fili’s birthday next week, and I wandered whether you and Frodo would like to come to the celebration. It’s small, just us and the few friends and family we still have here,” Thorin said. He seemed nervous about asking, which was just so…  _ charming _ , in itself. This was a man who towered over six feet tall and looked like he could do the plough horse’s job for it, and yet he was nervous about this, of all things. 

“It sounds lovely. How old is he this year?” Bilbo asked. The tension visibly bled from Thorin’s shoulders. 

“Nineteen,” Thorin said. “It’s like I blinked and he grew up without me seeing.”

“I know how you feel. Frodo’s growing by the day and I still remember holding him when he was born,” Bilbo said. He saw Thorin looking around for him, not subtle in the least. “He’s at school.”

“Good. I wish I’d stayed in school longer, really,” Thorin said. He scratched a mark from the counter with his fingernail. 

“What did you do before the war?” Bilbo asked, realising he actually didn’t know. Thorin shrugged. 

“Mining, mostly. That’s how my family made our money, through mining,” he said. 

“Were you in the office or in the mines?” Bilbo asked. 

“Bit of both, if I’m honest. Can’t do any of that now,” Thorin said. BIlbo nodded. 

“Do you want to…?” he gestured to the office door and Thorin nodded, exhaling. Bilbo let him through behind the counter and Thorin disappeared inside, shucking off his coat in the process. Bilbo looked out at the room - it was a little busy today, but he could do with a break. His leg was aching something fierce. He could do with hiring some fresh blood, really, but hadn’t actually gotten around to it yet. He really should look into it…

“Are you sure you’re alright, Thorin?” he asked, coming to sit down next to him. Thorin was rolling his shirt sleeves up - granted, it was warm in here, with the oven on in the next room. 

“I’m fine. It was a difficult walk today, with the ice,” he said. Bilbo let his voice wash over for him for a moment, that lovely rich voice with the northern drawl he had come to love about this place. 

“Ah. Right. The ice,” Bilbo said. It  _ was  _ getting much colder, the deeper they got into December. Frodo had slipped and sprained his ankle the other day because of the ice, and Bilbo had done almost the same. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, excusing himself. He left the room and went to the counter to see if there were anymore customers. No, just people eating and chatting and leaving their coats by the blazing fireplace to warm them up for the trip home. He exhaled with relief and went to make their tea. It took far too long for his liking - if Bilbo had his way, he would be cooped up in that old, tiny office with Thorin all day, even if to just get away from people making comments about him, his leg, him not being from the area. You’d think that a small town like this, after losing so many brothers and sons and husbands, would be a little more courteous to those who had survived the war unintact, with demons that howled louder than any dragon could because of the sheer guilt and shame they felt for it. 

Bilbo pushed those thoughts away as he put toasted teacakes on a little plate for both him and Thorin. As it turned out, the man might not have that much of a sweet tooth, but he could eat teacakes by the pound, especially the ones with raisins in them and slathered in marmalade. Bilbo always kept a couple of teacakes to the side, just in case Thorin came in. If he didn’t, then Bilbo took them home and he and Frodo ate them after supper. 

He came back to the office to see Thorin standing and looking at the photos Bilbo had hung on the wall, his hands behind his back and his head tilted to the side. Bilbo had to set the tray down very, very carefully so as not to drop it at the sight of Thorin’s broad shoulders under that shirt and waistcoat. 

“Your parents?” Thorin asked, pointing to one of the photos. Bilbo nodded and came to stand next to him. 

“Belladonna and Bungo Baggins… someone needs to tell my family to stop making everything alliterative,” Bilbo said. Thorin laughed softly, shaking his head. 

“They’re not around anymore?” he asked. 

“No. I lost my father during the Great War, and my mother… well, natural causes. Three years ago,” Bilbo said. He looked up at his parents, long gone but still with him, at least metaphorically. “I miss them sometimes.”

“I know how you feel. My parents are long since gone, and sometimes I wish they were around so that they could help when we need it,” Thorin said. Bilbo wondered what Thorin’s parents had looked like. Did Thorin resemble his father in his stern features that could become achingly gentle and his tall stature? Did he get his blue eyes from his mother? Was the more or less single streak of grey and white in his hair hereditary, or just random genetics? 

Bilbo knew the answers to those questions when it came to himself. He had his father's red hair and grey eyes, his mother's height and build, and the freckles on his face that had been fading over the years came from neither of them, more from spending much time out in the sun as a child, reading or drawing or just daydreaming in their garden. 

Thorin didn’t need to know any of that. Bilbo turned and sat down at the table to pour himself a cup of tea.

The conversation was quiet that day. Not that Bilbo minded, he could feel a headache starting to brew like a storm behind his eyes. Thorin didn’t seem to mind, either. He complimented Bilbo on the teacakes and asked if he would be able to find the time to make something for Fili’s birthday, if not, it didn’t matter. Bilbo jumped at the idea. He hadn’t made an actual birthday cake in  _ ages _ , he could do with a project like that. He literally took down notes on what kind of jam Fili liked and things like that once Thorin asked, and by the time he left to go home, Bilbo had a plan of the cake in mind - something small, something that wouldn’t deplete his reserves for the tea room, something that could go between family and old friends on a winter afternoon. 

Thorin lingered at the table when they were done. 

“What’s wrong?” Bilbo asked. He finished his tea and put it down on the tray as Thorin brushed crumbs from the table. For a long moment, he was silent. 

“I’ve never thanked you for your company,” he said softly. “It’s truly been a blessing, being your friend these last two months.”

“Thorin…,”

“You’re a kind man, Bilbo. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” Thorin smiled shyly, like he was a teenage boy, not a man nearing fifty. 

“I make tea and let you eat all of my tea cake's, I don’t really do much,” Bilbo said, though his stomach was fluttering. He stood and walked around the table to take Thorin’s plate and cup, only for a warm hand to wrap around his wrist and stop him gently, giving him a chance to pull away. 

“Your company is enough, especially to a lonely old man like me,” he said. 

“You’re not that old.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Strange, how that works out. It’s almost as if I was born nine years after you.” But Bilbo didn’t pull his hand away. Thorin was impossibly warm, a furnace with a pulse, looking up at Bilbo with a half amused smile on his face. What the other half of  that smile was, Bilbo didn’t know. Or more likely, he didn’t want to think about.  

“I’m glad that this helps,” he said softly. “And I’m glad that you’re my friend.”

“I should go,” Thorin said after a pause. He stood and Bilbo started, stunned by the sudden  _ mountain _ of a man standing before him, almost too close for comfort.  _ Or maybe not close enough _ , a small voice supplied. Bilbo mentally shooed it away as Thorin pulled on his coat and his scarf. 

“I’ll see you soon?” Bilbo asked. When Thorin was in the doorway, he paused, looking back at Bilbo with a curious look on his face. 

“Of course, my friend,” he said, and then he left, and Bilbo tried not to think about how much more dull the little office felt without him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is... hm...... gay...  
> bilbo has a Big Crush and thorin probably knows already  
> anywayyy i got back to college on monday so there'll be less frequent updates on all of my multichapter fics. i rllly need to get my shit together this year so studying comes first. ill find time to write, though, i really love this au  
> find me on tumblr @gaypippin

**Author's Note:**

> In all honesty, I just loved the entire fic this was inspired by.


End file.
